Poking the Bear Blog

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  • A Life on Display

    A Life on Display

    Our townhouse in Denver overlooks a beautiful park. On the edge of the park, there is a public outdoor fitness course which one man in the entire Denver Metro area uses.

    On that morning, he was there, hitting every station in earnest, making the city planner who had fought for the balance board proud. “Installing this course without a round balance board on a spring would be an unforgiveable disservice to the community!” I imagine the planner had yelled, banging a fist on the table so hard he lost sleep that night wondering if he had gone too far. Or chosen the right battle.

    If the man in the park had looked up mid pull-up he would have spotted me, a woman standing at a large 2nd floor window across the street, watching him. Only I wasn’t watching him. Or, I had been for a second, but then something caused me to adjust my focus to the windowpane inches in front of me. There, at the height of my forehead, was a hole that could have only been made by one thing, a bullet.

    ***

    “It’s a good thing you weren’t standing at the window when the gun was fired,” my husband Mark said later that afternoon as we studied both the hole in the window, and then the one in the living room wall opposite the window. I had assumed the gun had been fired from right across the street, in which case the bullet should have ended up in the ceiling. I picked a piece of dry wall up off the floor and shoved it into the hole.

    “Don’t you think?” asked Mark.

    “Think what?”

    “Don’t you think that it was a good thing you weren’t standing at the window when the gun was fired?”

    I turned and stared at him.

    “I sure do,” I said.

    Mark nodded, relieved to have found something we could agree on.

    ***

    I wasn’t looking for open shelving, open shelving found me. We bought the townhouse because of the windows with park views, and not for the two, prominent wall mounted open shelving units inside the main level living area. I am more of closed cabinet/junk drawer person, but I took on the challenge of decorating these shelves, and it quickly became an obsession. I shaved hours off my sleep schedule to watch every YouTube video on how to style open shelves. There are a lot, and I thumb-up’d them all.

    ***

    In the first days of my obsession, Mark didn’t understand. “What are you doing?” He’d ask, watching me move a decorative item from one end of a shelf a little more towards the middle, or more daringly, to another shelf altogether (a move I would not recommend trying if you’re prone to vertigo.)

    “I’m elevating our space,” I’d say. And this would shut him up because who doesn’t want an elevated space?

    Mark became used to me flying off the couch in the middle of a movie to start the rearranging.

    “There she goes!” he’d say, watching me turn a wooden box a quarter inch clockwise. “That made all the difference.”

    The funny thing is, it really did.

    Sometimes, as I’m moving a photo frame to sit more at a casual angle or turning a hand carved bowl to feature its best side, I wonder if I shouldn’t be doing something more useful with my time. This always turns out to be a fleeting thought though, as there are frames to adjust and bowls to turn and they aren’t going to do it themselves.

    ***

    The bullet had embedded itself inches from a carefully curated selection of books. Books I choose simply because the jacket covers pulled in colors from the rug and wall art to create a cohesive look. It is one of many professional decorator tips and tricks I now have in my arsenal.

    Several books I choose because they were inspirational along with being the right color.  One should surround oneself with inspirational items to not only elevate the space, but elevate the soul, one decorator with a more holistic approach had advised.

    I found myself buying books titled, “The Bucket List, 1000 Adventures Big & Small” and “Epic Journeys, 245 Life-Changing  Adventures,” and “1,000 Places to See Before You Die.”

    These how to live your best life before it’s too late books now felt especially poignant sitting just inches from the new bullet hole in the wall.

    We aren’t going to dig the bullet out. And likely we aren’t going to patch it until we sell the townhouse as a bullet hole is not a great selling point.

    For now, I have decided the hole is part of the story my shelves are trying to tell. A reminder to hit that bucket list as time could be more limited than you think.

    ***

    “Based on the trajectory, the gun was shot as far as a mile away,” the officer told us when we made our police report. “Where the bullet entered is almost parallel to where it ended up in the wall.”

    The officer spotted Mark’s hospital badge on the kitchen island.

    Another reason we bought the townhouse was its proximity to the hospital where Mark works. It is just a two-minute drive when he gets called in the middle of the night to help victims most often related to incidents involving drunk drivers, and, of course, guns. And there is a surprising number of people getting hit by the city’s quiet, stealth-like electric commuter train.

    “You work at Denver Health?” The officer asked.

    “Yes.”

    “Thank you for all you do.”

    “No, thank you for all you do.”

    The two exchanged nods of mutual admiration then looked over at me. It was all I could do to stop myself from gesturing to my shelves.

    “I will get back to you if we hear of anything.” The officer told Mark. To me he said, “don’t worry. Obviously, no one was targeting you.”

    The officer shook his head and almost chuckled at the thought that I could be a victim of anything other than a totally random act of violence.

    ***

    The next day I spotted my neighbors, the balcony girls, who were splitting a bottle of wine. I talked to them from my own matching balcony. I told them about the bullet hole in our window and they told me that the same thing had happened to the neighbor on the other side of me about a year ago.

    “So…I guess I just army crawl around my place from now on?” I suggested.

    “It is good for the core,” Mia replied.

    The balcony girls are really balcony women. Diane is around my age. Her wife is Mia is maybe 7-10 years younger. In the two years we have had this place my interaction with them has only ever been balcony to balcony or balcony to sidewalk, me being the one on the sidewalk.

    Only once I saw Mia on street level. It was last summer. I had opened my garage and there she was, idling in her own garage. If I took five steps and crossed the narrow alley I could touch her. She wore a polo and baggy shorts and had leg sleeve tattoos I hadn’t noticed from afar.

    Seeing Mia off balcony was like catching Santa Claus off duty. I remember a day years ago when after sitting on Santa’s lap at a fancy holiday brunch, my kids and I spotted Santa later in the restaurant’s parking lot. The kids watched him with wide eyes as he yelled into his cell, (at an insolent elf, I told the kids) before tossing an old gym bag in the back of his car and slamming the door shut.

    On this hot afternoon, Mia became a kind of Santa.

    “Do you want a popsicle?” she asked, “I have a popsicle fridge.”

    “You have a popsicle fridge?”

    She waved me over to see. I stood next to her as she opened the door to one of two full sized fridges, only this one was a freezer, and it was indeed full of popsicles. Popsicle sticks of the alcohol variety. It was like the opening of the briefcase in Pulp Fiction. The glow from inside. My expression of awe.

    Mia grabbed a few sticks and held them up, “Margarita, Strawberry Daiquiri, or Pina Colada? I also have other kinds.”

    “Margarita, please.”

    She handed it to me, then reached in the popsicle fridge for another margarita pop.

    “Do you want a second one?”

    “Okay” I said. “Just in case.”

    ***

    Back on the balcony Diane was sympathetic, “sorry, that happened, hope the window won’t be too expensive to replace.”

    “I think it is some idiot shooting his gun off from his porch on the other side of the park.” Mia said, “don’t worry, you obviously weren’t targeted.”

    “Oh my god, for sure you weren’t the target!” Diane agreed.

    I had never thought I was the target. But the fact that this was the third time someone assured me that I wasn’t was starting to feel offensive.

    ***

    As I waited for the new windowpane to arrive, I kept a careful eye on the glass surrounding the bullet hole; a sunburst of cracks that I hoped wouldn’t spider.

    But mostly I returned to my life as a benign entity. A shadow passing back and forth behind a row of large windows. A tender of decorative displays. An extra playing the role of “woman hit by stray bullet” in a box office thriller. The director would be sure to shoot my bit scene at an angle so as not to see too much of my face, otherwise they would have to pay me more than an extra’s day rate.

    ***

    As Mark had noted, it was a good thing I hadn’t been at the window when the gun was fired. Also, it was a good thing I hadn’t been across the room, standing by the shelves, doing my thing. If I had, I wondered how long it would take for me to realize I had been shot.

    Shelf-styling isn’t known to be dangerous. That I could be shot doing it, and while home alone, would be unexpected. It probably would have taken me noting the hole in the window to figure it out.

    The shelving units are sturdy as they are mounted to the wall. I imagine I would have clung to them to slow the fall. A chance to review my curated collection of “favorite finds” on the way down. One final time.

    The Bucket List book lists “1000 adventures Big & Small.” That is a lot, but many of my items on my shelves were collected from trips. I’d be pleased seeing that I had checked off more than a few adventures in the book.

    A set of gold camels I bought in the ancient city of Petra, #555. Photos scuba diving in Belize, #700, and skiing in Chamonix, France #129. A box of silver Baoding Balls I bought just outside the Forbidden City in Beijing  #455. A pair of wood carved penguins I got in Antartica. Antartica happens to be #1000 on the book’s proposed list. Which may make sense. I was on a ship with many elderly passengers. When I asked them why they chose a trip to the white continent many would say because it was the only continent they had yet to explore. The last box to check on their bad-ass bucket list.

    ***

    I would eventually find myself on the floor. My balcony girls not realizing my need. My husband busy working on another person’s gun wound, a person who was likely targeted.

    I would scan the items on the lowest shelf which was now at eye level. Normally not one of the more visible shelves, I had given this shelf the least attention, and in that moment I’d realize in horror that it showed.

    There were three items on the shelf, a potted succulent, a colorful Peruvian vase, and a framed photo. The photo was taken in the driveway of my brother’s house when he hosted our sister’s wedding. It is of my daughter and four of my nieces in matching pink bridesmaids dresses shooting hoops as they waited for my sister to get ready. Not in the Bucket List book, but frame-worthy all the same. All three items were placed side by side and too much so. It felt flat. The items needed to be more staggered. And then, I’d make my final decorative adjustment while bleeding out. A multi-tasker till the very end.

    The framed photo and vase I’d be afraid to touch, too easy to knock down and not have the strength to pick up. The succulent was my best bet. I’d reach out and push it back just a little, and then a little more. And that would be enough. This new position would be more pleasing to the eye because staggering items on a shelf adds dimension, and dimension adds interest.

    And creating moments of interest is the secret to an elevated space.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • How to Summer in Alaska

    How to Summer in Alaska

    The other evening my husband Mark and I were on a peaceful stroll when we came across this we shoot to kill sign. A not so subtle warning to trespassers.

    I had just been thinking our walk was similar to our post-dinner walks in Boulder, where we came from. Mountain views, similar style homes and buildings, the smell of pine…but you wouldn’t see a sign like this in Boulder.

    And if you did (but you wouldn’t, but if you did, only you wouldn’t) the sign probably wouldn’t be posted outside the doors of a Health and Wellness Center.

    My guess is this clinic is “by appointment only.”

    “That’s ironic,” Mark says.

    For sure such a sign encourages you to ask questions. Like…

    “Are we trespassing?” I ask Mark.

    “No, this is a public thoroughfare,” Mark responds, looking around.

    I look around too. I had been too busy yapping to notice before, but it was looking and certainly feeling like we were on a private compound. There was this health center flanked by multiple lodge style sleeping cabins. At the moment all of them were dark and it was very quiet, but I couldn’t say for sure that no one was inside. There were several trucks parked outside the cabins. I listened for the cock of a rifle.

    “At least I think this is a public thouroughfare, “Mark says.

    “Psst…dude, you might want to be sure,” the silhouette poster man says in a low whisper, “Oh, and also, nobody uses the word “thoroughfare” anymore because it’s dumb.”

     4 Classic Alaskan Accommodations

     

    1: The Adventure Lodge

    We had purposely wandered this way to check out what the accommodations were like at this lodge. We wanted to view options in case we had an overflow of guests at any given time. Our house only has three bedrooms, and a closet sized room I managed to squeeze a full mattress into.

    Like many of the “adventure lodges” in the state, this one is geared to groups wanting to hunt or fish. Or see bears. There are guides and private planes to fly you to the best spots here on the Kenai Peninsula (also known as “Alaska’s Playground). The lodge is on a lake, and the decor is very practical and efficient with multiple beds in each room so you can fit everyone in.

    Earlier I had seen on-line that as part of your vacation you can experience Cenegenics, which had sounded kind of random and I skimmed over it. Now seeing the building I was more curious about what Cenegenics was.

    I looked it up. My quick takeaway, Cenegenics is a hormone optimization program designed to:

    1. Reverse your biological age (I want that)
    2. Protect you from age related decline (I want that too)

    One middle-aged male endorser of the program says, “I feel like I’m a 21 year-old boy!”

    Not bad. No wonder people are willing to risk a round of bullets in order to get in.

    I wonder though, how many hunters are seeking a vacation package where they can shoot a bear and at the same time rebalance their hormones? Seems like a pretty niche market.

    I also wonder how many people with a license to carry firearms are even willing to admit to an “imbalance” of any kind?

    But, who knows, hunters more than anyone are forced to face the concept of mortality, and maybe that’s enough to motivate them to seek out ways to delay their own.

    In any case, with or without the Cenegenics program add-on, this place looks like the perfect Alaskan adventure.

    I like their highlight reel.

     

    2. Cruises

    Covid-19 restrictions will of course hurt the tourism industry here this year, especially cruise ships and the ports they visit (mostly the cute town’s in “The Inside Passage” of Alaska) The big cruiselines are hoping to start up in July. There are small ship cruises that plain to be operating again sooner, like Uncruise out of Seattle, and I need to mention Linbald Expeditions given I went with them to Antartica, my post on that https://pokingthebear.org/aboard-the-national-geographic-explorer-in-antarctica/

    The 3-4 hour day cruises, however, are already running. We just did an afternoon cruise in Seward. Only one family per boat (there are bigger day cruise ships that fit 100 but are now only taking 50 people for social distance) I liked the small boat option, many times you’d look over to see porpoises right there swimming alongside you at the appropriate distance of 6-ft.

    Heading out of Resurrection Bay, Seward

    3.The RV/Camper

    When it comes to traveling during an era of social distancing Alaska has several things going for it: wide open spaces, tons of individual family cabins for rent, and RV camp sites with views you’d pay a fortune for anywhere else. Every time I see another RV on the road, and I’m starting to see a lot, I have to admit RV road-tripping is a genius way to vacation right now.

    Basically you’re sheltering in place while on the move.

    And when I vacation, I like to be on the move. I feel it makes the vacation feel longer because the days don’t blend together. If we have one week, I like to switch locations at least once during that time.

    Another thing that has happened since we have been here is Mark has become an avid birder. Yep. He is regularly armed with the bird book I bought him for his birthday and the binoculars I borrowed from my brother for that Antartica trip, and never returned. He has become an overnight expert on birds, making me jump every time by shouting out a bird name (and then humbly looking through the bird book to be sure he was right.)

    Drawn to our birdseed wreath it’s a Stellar’s Jay!!
    Called it right.

    Imagine all the birds he could spot if we roamed the country in an RV?

    But, also, I now have this fantasy of an RV doubling as a guest house in our driveway.

    I would say Airstream, but such coolness comes with a price tag. Apparently there is an airstream club that comes through Soldotna every year. And while I want to be a part of that club I fear I wouldn’t fit in. It would just be a matter of time before I’d be called out for my non-stylish Walgreens reading glasses and my preservatives forward diet, and eventually shunned by the cool kids for being less airstream, and more mainstream.

    I figure we could always string bistro lights outside so that at least the airstream people wouldn’t feel too uncomfortable saying “hi” to us.

    Actually, I have no idea if there is an Airstream RV type, I just know renovated airstreams are retro chic and regularly make it into aspirational lifestyle magazines. I have been going down the wormhole of RV makeovers. The more dramatic RV renos seem to look like a stationary tiny house, totally gutted and with regular house furniture. Makes for more dramatic “after” photos, but impractical if you plan to actually drive it.

    And, I don’t want something too big so I’m thinking maybe the Minnie Winnie. Last photo of a Minnie Winnie reno.

    https://winnebagolife.com/2019/12/winnebago-renovations-we-love

    The Minnie Winnie is tighter on space and I’d have to accept Mark’s bird books could take a whole shelf, but I think it could work.

    Maybe I’m just thinking Minnie Winnie because I’m more familiar with it, a couple of summer’s ago we took a trip to the Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado. We had many games of Risk by lamplight.

    Our first trip in a Minnie Winnie

    If you had told me, at any point in my life until now, that I’d be looking into actually buying an RV of any kind I would have laughed in your face. Hard. But, now I can see Mark and myself as empty nester RVers one day.

    I picture the two of us, years from now, quietly preparing breakfast in tandem while parked at a campground. Or in the driveway of our daughter’s boyfriend’s home.

    “Mother, can you hand me the spatula?” Mark will ask me. And I will pass him our only spatula not knowing how or when I started letting him call me “mother.”

    There is a knock on the RV door. I answer.

    “Mark,” I call out, “We need to leave! It’s the roommate and he is tired of being blocked in every morning! He says it is time for us to move on!”

    “What?” Mark calls back.

    “We need to leave!”

    “I can’t hear you!”

    “Then turn off the fan!”

    “The what?!”

    “The fan!”

    “The pan!?”

    “The fan!”

    “The what?!”

    “Mark!!!”

    4. The Guest cabin

    I found this flyer in my car the other day. I had picked it up a few days ago this structure was just sitting on a corner in town with a “for sale” sign on it.

    Wish I could see the transformation once someone finishes this cabin.

    The log or wood cabin is a popular choice for guests visiting this state, and they are everywhere on Airbnb. But what if we had our very own cabin right here on our property for our friends and family. We could hook it up to our plumbing so it is an actual bedroom en suite.

    “Stop calling it a guest cabin,” Mark tells me if only because I keep calling it that. “We need to refer to it as a utility shed.”

    Apparently, having a shed on one’s property is okay. A cabin isn’t. It is considered a second home. I don’t know who would say anything though as judging by everyone else’s yard here in Alaska, anything goes, we see structures three times larger than the house itself. Shelter for big toys comes before shelter for family in the order of priorities.

    “Yes, I meant this could be a shed, for your tools,” I agree, “and if you get tired while organizing your tools there will be a bathroom and shower so you can wash up, and a bed so you can nap.”

    Now looking at its dimensions, I think it would take up too much property space. I don’t think we will get that many visitors for it to make sense as a permanent fixture, and I fear we’d just end up filling with junk. If we make a big purchase, I’m definitely leaning more towards the RV option.

    Security Measures

    As Mark and I head down our driveway I think back to that sign on the Wellness Center, the sign really isn’t a bad idea. It might work better than a “No Solicitors” sign which I had been meaning to get. Especially for anyone claiming that they aren’t technically solicitors.

    Where we live now, there are only two people that come down our driveway, and that’s the guy with the snowplow and UPS which is why it is extra unnerving when we did have solicitors on one dark night this past winter.

    I had just gotten out of the shower when I heard my daughter Tatum talking to someone at the front door. From the top of the stairs I saw her standing talking to two men. Who were they and why had my daughter opened the door for them? How many times do I have to tell her, unless it is the UPS man (delivering something like an Amazon box containing closet dividers) one NEVER opens the door for strangers!

    I knew why she thought it was okay this time. The two men looked young and innocent. They were in their late teens, maybe early twenties. Or perhaps they were middle age and on the Cenegenics program. In any case, few things get me riled up more than strangers ringing my doorbell and especially at night, and especially when Mark isn’t here, and especially when we are living in a house that is this remote. I don’t like it, and I just don’t like it. I really don’t like it.

    As I head down the stairs in my robe, the boys look up at me.

    “Good evening Ma’am,” says one, “We were just talking to your daughter about her faith. Can I ask you…?” was the last thing I heard clearly before I started mumbling “no, sorry, no…” and softly closed the door. As if they wouldn’t notice that I just shut the door in their faces if I do it softly.

    “Oh my god Mom, that was so rude!” Tatum says.

    I’m sure those boys were harmless enough and of course they think they are doing the right thing, it’s just…no. I really don’t like it.

    Rules of Gun Club

    “We should put up one of those “Don’t expect a warning shot” signs on our front door,” I joke to Mark.

    “Yes, and we should get a gun,” Mark not-jokes back.

    Ugh the gun subject again.

    “I forgot to tell you,” Mark continues, “tomorrow I’m going to join a gun club.”

    Now, since we have been in Alaska, we only had one gun lesson, and it was a bust. What I had thought would be a chance to conquer my fears just made my fears even worse. https://pokingthebear.org/teaching-kids-about-guns-familys-first-lesson-in-firearms/

    But, I guess join a gun club first, and learn how to handle a gun second. That’s apparently how we are doing it because the next night I joined Mark at the gun club’s membership orientation meeting.

    Basically, the orientation was a laundry list of all the ways to get kicked out of the club.

    Speaking from behind his covid protective mask, the owner/manager of the club lectured us military style.

    Some rules he listed off I understood because they were in english, like, “Pick up after yourself! Yes that means your shell casings too! We’re not your mom, clean up after yourself or you’re gone!”

    But other rules, I just had no idea what he was saying as they were too technical. They sounded important though.

    What I heard was, “You blah blah blah, and you’re gone! And, if you blah blah blah? Oh, you are definitely gone!”

    I didn’t hear him say, “If you blog about this club you’re gone!” So, I think we’re good on that.

    I wonder if everyone could tell we didn’t belong. Well, me for sure, but also Mark. Certainly no one else was dressed in an oxford button down shirt, khakis, and penny loafers. Coincidentally this is what Mark wore on our very first date. And every day following.

    “Xenia, Mark needs to change up his style!” My mom would often tell me until she gave up, “He needs to dress more hip hop!”

    I think by “hip hop” my mom really just meant…not khakis.

    When the owner/manager took Mark’s membership paperwork and payment, he was no longer so stern but quite friendly, more so than with the other new members, unless I’m totally imagining this. Seriously, I might be totally imagining that. But while he was chatting up Mark I felt like perhaps he appreciated the business casual attire, and he took it as a sign that Mark wouldn’t cause trouble. Or maybe he could tell Mark will be one of those members who pay the annual dues only to use the club once. Maybe twice. And that will very likely be the case.

    What the manager/owner probably wouldn’t appreciate is that not only is Mark not a NRA member, which is strongly, and I mean strongly recommended at the gun club. He wouldn’t guess that our family is somewhat active in campaigning for stricter gun legislation.

    I don’t know, we may be transforming in ways I can’t identify just yet, but that was all a part of this move to Alaska adventure package. I am not sure whether our “after” picture will be an improvement or not, but my guess is that it will at least make it on a list of ironic images.

    Ending this post with one more bird shot taken from the boat trip in Seward. A Bald Eagle, no need to check the book.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Teaching Kids About Guns; Family’s First Lesson in Firearms

    Teaching Kids About Guns; Family’s First Lesson in Firearms

    A 14-month-old child stumbles around a coffee table clinging to it as he focuses on the exciting objects on top; brightly colored blocks, soft squeaky toys, and a Smith and Wesson hand gun.

    The toddler picks up and plays/chews on each item with little reaction from his dad, unless it is the gun. And then the dad’s reaction is swift and startling, dad slaps his hand and reprimands the child, “No!”

    My family and I are at a shooting range on a cold September day on the Kenai Peninsula, Alaska. I had just asked our gun instructor and father of six how old his kids were when he started teaching them about guns, and he explained that this is how he did it. And, he started as soon as his baby could roll over.

    My initial instinct was to be horrified, but I checked myself. I had to ponder this one.

    At What Age Should You Teach Your Children About Guns?

    The answer to this question can be very different if you happen to be a gun owner, and then, what kind of gun owner. Avid shooter and hunter, or someone who keeps one small gun locked away in a safe.

    I had thought signing up my 13-year-old-son and 15-year-old daughter for a lesson at a shooting range was pushing it, but here we were being instructed by a father and his 12-year-old son, a boy who says he learned to shoot by age four.

    I wasn’t raised around guns, and neither were my kids. All they know about guns is that guns are behind school shootings and lock down drills. In Boulder we lived just miles from Columbine High School. Recently, while driving around Denver, my son asked if we were near Columbine. When I asked him why he wanted to know, he responded, “I don’t know, I just can’t stop thinking about it.”

    My son’s outward response to it all is fear. My daughter’s is fear, and anger. I have only supported her action when it comes to campaigning for more gun legislation so signing us up for this lesson was met with confusion and resistance from her. I get it. It wasn’t long ago that we participated in a march after 17 teens lost their lives in a high school shooting in Florida. Tatum’s homemade signs made #14 in this Denver newspaper’s list of “Most Inspiring Signs at the March for our Lives.”

    https://www.westword.com/news/twenty-most-impactful-signs-from-young-protesters-at-the-march-for-our-lives-10123953

    But I feel my decision to have this family lesson at a shooting range wasn’t a “if you can’t beat them, join them” one, but a, “if you can’t beat them, learn as much as you can about them.” This feels especially important when you live in a community where the majority of the residents have guns in the home. Also, there is the bear attack nightmare I keep having. https://pokingthebear.org/4-tips-on-how-to…id-a-bear-attack/ ‎

    I had been asking people I was starting to meet in town whether they “carried” when hiking, etc. Most did. Of course our gun instructor did. I asked him if he ever had to use a gun to protect himself in the wild. “Of course,” he answered, “I had to shoot a brown bear, a black bear, and a moose.” Once again, my initial instinct was to be horrified.

    So far we have only had this one introductory course which quickly dissolved into a scene of chaos that has become our family’s signature. Given that we were handling firearms, we decided to cut the lesson short. I have a couple of important takeaways for a more successful lesson next time. If there is a next time.

    1. A Good Shooting Range Rule; Avoid Distractions

    Unfortunately, that’s hard to do when you’re married to a big one.

    Can you say “ho-ser!” Mark’s hat sat perched on his head exactly as pictured…the entire four-hour lesson. It was simultaneously absurd and impressive.

    Turns out it is harder to lecture your kids on the seriousness of guns when you look like one of the McKenzie Brothers from the 80’s movie, “Strange Brew.”

    “This is serious, eh?  You gotta be payin’ attention, eh?”

     

    Tatum doing Tatum, Anders dancing as usual, the kids were not taking this hoser seriously.

    My Little “Billy Elliot”

    Distraction two; as I opened box one out of our 12 boxes of ammunition it was hard not to notice Anders out of the corner of my eye who was busy dancing, as he does all the time, and often unaware. Anders has been popping and locking since he was in the womb. When he was eight we rented an airbnb in Paris for a week. Night one and we already had a downstairs neighbor pounding on our door. Despite four years of high school French, I had no idea what he was saying, and so the frustrated man tried to explain by flapping his hands, then pointing at the floor, and saying “ba ba ba.” I turned and looked around at our quiet apartment and so did he, momentarily confused. Then as if on cue, Anders appeared in the arched doorway moonwalking backwards across the hall from one end, stopping to do an a MJ spin and a couple of stomps, then moonwalked out the other end. The neighbor pointed excitedly, “C’est le garcon!” Finally, the French lessons paid off as I knew what he was saying, “it’s the boy!”

    And really, of course it’s the boy. It always is.

    The rest of the week was a something of a stressful vigil; always at the ready to quickly stop my son’s feet from breaking into dance on top of the wood floors in a building that was 100 years old. Since then we only rent ground floor apartments.

    Anders finding a more appreciative audience at my sister’s wedding this summer.

    The Projectile Tooth

    A third big distraction during our lesson was the fact that every time my daughter laughed or sneezed her fake tooth flew out of her mouth. Long story short, one of her canines never grew in. When she stops growing she will get a tooth implant. Until then, trying to keep a fake tooth in with various retainers has become a full time hobby. A few times we had to stop what we were doing and look for the tooth while trying to keep Anders from dancing on top of it.

    Turns out spotting a $200 off-white fake tooth among light colored gravel isn’t as easy as it sounds.

    There is a chance a projectile tooth, a breakdancing son, and a husband unintentionally dressed like an SNL character might just be distractions that are specific to my family. But this next one applies to everyone.

    Check the Weather!

    Had we checked the weather, we would have dressed more appropriately, or better yet rescheduled. The day of our lesson had finally arrived, but so had the first hint of winter. It was freezing, and when you can’t feel your toes due to the cold, it could turn into a situation where your don’t feel them ever again.

    Distracted by the cold, I was about to re-holster my gun with my finger still on the trigger when my 12-year-old instructor stopped me. “That’s a good way to shoot yourself in the foot.”

    Or worse.

    “I don’t like how your holster is twisted like that,” Mark says looking over at us. “It’s aimed at your groin.”

    I re-adjusted the holster, and considered myself lucky.

    Any day I don’t accidentally shoot off my vagina is a good day, I say.

    I looked it up and leaving your finger on the trigger when re-holstering is actually the number one cause of accidental discharge when handling a gun. My husband has seen the aftermath of such a mistake multiple times as he has spent most of his career as an orthopedic trauma surgeon working at level 1 trauma hospitals.  Below is a link to an article devoted to this safety tip.  Do not open this article on the subject unless you have a strong stomach.

     https://www.ammoland.com/2015/10/negligent-discharges-the-most-dangerous-activity-when-pistol-training/#axzz69QASWc5V

    2. The First Rule of Gun Safety? “Assume EVERY Gun is Loaded!”

    At one point during the lesson Anders forgot this golden rule. Instead, he stops dancing, pulls his unloaded gun out, and aims it at his sister.

    It was at this point that my husband’s head did a 360-exorcist spin, detached from its shoulders, and flew into Anders’s face.

    “Never, ever, ever, ever, point a gun at Tatum!” the red-faced floating head screamed.

    “But,” Anders sputters, “it’s not loaded!”

    The red-faced floating head spins again and turns dark crimson, “EVERY gun is loaded! Always handle a gun as if it is loaded!!”

    “Yeah Anders, you stupid,” a shivering Tatum manages to get out through her chattering teeth. I suspect if these happened to be her last words before freezing to death she’d be good with it.

    Anders looks at our 12-year old instructor who gives a shrug as if to say, “that is the rule, but yeah, your gun isn’t loaded.”

    The red-faced head eventually returns to its shoulders and looks at me.

    “What Anders just did is exactly the reason why we wanted this lesson,” Mark tells me.

    I nod.

    “I’m not kidding,” Mark says.

    My nod wasn’t kidding either. That was pretty bad.

    After this incident and combined with the fact that all of our hands were shaking from the cold, Mark made the appropriate call to call off the lesson. If we have a second lesson will just do a dry one, and inside. “Dry” meaning no ammunition.

    Clearly we aren’t ready to be gun owners, and I don’t necessarily want to be one. But if that ever changes, we happen to have a gun safe which was left in the basement of our new house. I think the house was actually built around it.

    gun safe

     

     

     

     

     

  • Reflections in a Mountain Town

    Reflections in a Mountain Town

     

    I sat judging the man from my seat at the bar. And a bar stool, as many know, is a perfect spot from which to judge.

    The man looked out of place in this crowded old west style saloon as he clung tightly to the straps of his fancy backpack. Made of quilted black leather, the Prada backpack boasted a large silver logo tag and many fat shiny silver zippers. The man spun in circles, looking confused. I imagined the man thinking, “Did I take the wrong exit? This can’t be Vail.”

    Under the warm light of a gigantic wagon wheel chandelier, the backpack glittered as the man spun, like a disco ball prop on the wrong movie set.

    ***

    Silverthorne, Colorado is not Vail, Colorado. It is a mountain town, but not the tourist attracting charming kind. Given its proximity to the charming kind, there are signs of “transition,” but for now, Silverthorne is something of a utilitarian community. The town is an exit off Interstate 70, where in the summer, drivers in pursuit of scenic vistas stop for gas and bug spray, and where in the winter, skiers (in attempt to cut their losses) pull off for more affordable accommodations. The skiers plan of course being to get back on the I-70 early the next day, heading to world famous resorts and “score first tracks.”

     

    On this stormy winter night, that became our plan too. Done with staring at four lanes of solid red taillights, my husband Mark and I pulled off and checked into the Luxury Inn and Suites. It was our last option as the Quality Inn and Suites and the Comfort Inn and Suites didn’t have any rooms left, or suites. Given the promise indicated in any of these names, one couldn’t go wrong. In our case, “luxury“ meant a room with damp carpet and a missing thermostat that looked like it had been ripped out the wall.

     

    “Hope you’re good with 79 degrees,” I told Mark as, using only my thumb and forefinger, I dragged the bedspread off the bed and stood it in the corner.  And it did stand. Resistant to gravity, and with stories to tell, the bedspread became an unnerving presence in my periphery.

    ***

    Deciding to stay in Silverthorne is how we ended up at the Mint Steakhouse. A place where you pick your cut of meat from a glass display case, and then grill it yourself. A clever concept not only in keeping with the tough cowboy vibes, but, if you don’t like how it is prepared, you only have yourself to blame. Holding on to a tray weighted with metal tongs and two raw, prime-cut filets, Mark strode to the men’s only grill room (not really, but pretty much) with purpose and swagger. God speed, I thought, as I went in the opposite direction to get a drink, and people watch.

     

    And that is when I spotted the man. He stood like a bolder in a river of oversized plaid flannel and ski jackets making their way around him. Eventually loosened him from his stupefied position, the man began to shuffle backwards in my direction. With no natural instinct to check behind him, the man kept shuffling backwards, heading directly toward the server station where three opened bottles of Coors Light awaited pick-up. His backpack was getting dangerously close to the row of beer bottles, closer, and then closer still. Of course, I should reach out to stop him. Of course, I should. Normally, I would. Of course, I normally would, but, don’t we want to see whether or not a Prada backpack can roll a strike? The backpack took out two of the three bottles. Not bad.

     

    “Hey buddy!” called out the age 60-something bartender, clearly a seasoned pro. His periphery vision kept him abreast of all the goings-on at his bar, and he immediately ran over with a rag, “Watch your backpack! Hey buddy!”

    The man turned and blinked at the bartender.

    “Your backpack.”

    Another blink.

    “It’s okay buddy, I got you.”

    As the bartender cleaned up, and opened new bottles of Coors, he started to sing one of the theme songs to Dora the Explorer.

    “Backpack, backpack! Backpack, backpack!” He set out new bottles for pick-up. “Backpack, backpack.” He kept singing until the man blinked himself backward and disappeared into the crowd.

    It was perhaps because I had appreciated the Dora song, and that I wasn’t talking to anyone, that the bartender noticed me, and I became his singular audience member for the following jokes. In between fielding the many drink orders for both the patrons at the bar, as well as the dining room, the bartender would stop in front of me to deliver another joke.

    Three in total, and in this order.

    Joke #1:

    “Did you hear about the blind prostitute?”

    I shook my head.

    “You gotta hand it to hand it to her.”

    I nodded my approval.

    The bartender raced off to mix a few drinks, but it wasn’t long before he was back. He leaned in conspiratorially.  I leaned in too.

    Joke #2:

    “How do you spot a blind man on a nudist beach.”

    I shook my head.

    “It isn’t hard.”

    Without waiting to see how it landed the bartender hurried off to take a couple’s order at the opposite end of the bar, quickly stopping to top off a sitting draft beer on the way.

    I leaned back. I get it, but I don’t know. I just don’t think of a nudist beach as a place where one goes to be aroused. I think of it as a place where one goes when one is over being constricted by social norms and elastic waistbands. Maybe the blind man was at the Playboy mansion pool…but wait, he needs to be naked too. A naked party at the Playboy mansion?

    Before I could finish workshopping it, my bartender was back.

    Joke #3:

    “So, Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse are in the middle of a divorce trial…”

    He paused for a moment.

    “Wait, you’re not easily offended, are you?”

    I shook my head.

    “So, they are in court and the judge says, “Sorry Mickey, saying that Minnie is crazy is not grounds for a divorce. And then Mickey says, “No judge, you don’t get it. I didn’t say Minnie is crazy. I said she is fucking Goofy!””

    And then he was off again.

    Across from where I sat, encased in the vintage oak of the western bar, was a large etched mirror. I stared at my reflection, a new person to judge. I had to ask myself the most obvious question for someone in my position; what was it about my face that made me look like someone who’d laugh at a Minnie fucking Goofy joke?

    If a focus group was asked to look through a stack of headshots and pick out the face most likely to love a Minnie fucking Goofy joke, would my photograph end up with the most fingerprints on it?

    “Her,” one unpaid participant would say, holding up my photo, “can’t you just see her throwing back her head and screaming with laughter at that?”

    (By the way, I say “unpaid” because I suspect this survey would have a tight budget, but you never know.)

    “Yeah, definitely,” another unpaid participant would agree, wanting to earn his keep via free cubed cheese, “she totally looks like someone who would dig a Minnie fucking Goofy joke. Or, like, any joke that involves blind people.”

     

    ***

    “I don’t get it,” Mark said, after we had found a booth and sat down with our overcooked steaks, “what does someone who would laugh at this Mickey joke even look like?”

    I wasn’t sure, I had to admit. But I suspected it was someone with chapped lips and deep nasal folds.

    Mark studied the steaks he had grilled, he looked concerned.

    “Do you think I need face filler?” I ask.

    Mark put his first forkful of steak in his mouth, then sat back and began to chew. It was going to be a while before I got my answer. For the millionth time that day, I was forced to control my inherited irrational impatience.

    I couldn’t do it.

    “Mark!”

    With some effort, Mark swallowed, “Xenia, I have to say, I’m just not following you. Do you think this steak is overcooked? I think it might be overcooked.”

    Mark forked the entire steak and held it up for scrutiny.

    Of course, the steak was overcooked. If the kitchen had prepared it, I would have sent it straight back, and with some words to go with, because I have more inner Prada backpack in me than what people are seeing.

    ***

    Later that night, while Mark brushed his teeth in bathroom, I laid in bed under the sole sheet.

    In one corner of the room hot air blew through a damaged ceiling vent. It looked like someone had pulled a chair over, stood on it, and punched the vent. Likely the same person who had ripped out the thermostat.

    And in the opposite corner of the room, sidelit by slivers of outside light that snuck by curtain security, the bedspread still stood tall. A bad ass. If it were alive, I bet it would have a raunchy sense of humor, but who knows, with bedspreads it is sometimes hard to tell.

    It occurred to me that I’m bad at memorizing jokes. Up until now, I had only known two, so if I were in a situation where I’d be killed unless I told three, I’d be dead. I memorized the two jokes I know when I was 7 years old. They both came from the back of a 1980s McDonald’s Happy Meal box.

    Joke #1

    What did the ocean say to the shore?

    Answer: Nothing it just waved.

    Joke#2

    What kind of pet plays music?

    Answer: A trumpet.

    These two jokes, always in this order, were a one-two punch in my elementary school days. The jokes–and my mom’s open-door policy to gum and Fig Newtons (we lived directly across the street from school)–got me an in with the popular crowd. And then, as an adult, I returned to these jokes to win over a new friend’s young kids. Worked every time, and always, the mother would smile and look relieved, as if my effort to make her kids laugh settled a concern that I was someone who didn’t like children. It wasn’t enough, apparently, that I had two little kids of my own…but fair enough.

     

    Maybe, as with my ‘80s Happy Meal box jokes, these just happened to be the only jokes the bartender remembered, and it really had nothing to do with my face. I doubt it, but maybe. If I had sat at the bar any longer (I was pulled away by Mark who wanted me to come and watch him overcook prime filets), would he have come back to deliver more? When he turned and saw my empty stool, was he possibly relieved?

     

    All I know is that since I have written down and possibly overthought his jokes, I’ll remember them. This makes me a little nervous. The upside is I now have five jokes at the ready, a number that could possibly save my life someday. I just hope I don’t get some kind of joke telling Tourette’s syndrome and blurt out the wrong joke to the wrong audience. Unfortunately, I suspect I will.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • What are the odds?

    What are the odds?

    Every so often, just when you think you’re going to make good time on knocking out the day’s “to do” list, you have an encounter that grinds time to a halt.

    Such was an encounter recently when I brought my son Anders to a retro looking barber shop before a trip to L.A. (As evidence in the cover photo, when the person next to you is barely visible due to your hair, it might be time for a trim.)

    “I’m sorry, I don’t see an appointment for Anders Hammerberg,” the stylist at the front desk said. She was in her thirties, her dyed red hair piled high in a messy bun. “We are all booked, but I can schedule him for another day.”

    I pulled up a text on my phone.

    “I have a text here confirming his appointment for 2:00 pm today.”

    But the stylist wasn’t interested in looking at my text, just the computer screen which she checked again, and then shook her head.

    “No. I do not see an Anders Hammerberg on the schedule at all today. And I can’t cut his hair now because I have someone else at two….”

    I’m about to give up when she continued, “I’m waiting for an Anders Sanders.”

    “Oh!” I said, “well, that’s probably my son.”

    “No, it’s Anders Sanders,” she repeated.

    “I know, but what are the odds that you happen to have an appointment for a different Anders at 2:00 today?”

    “Oh, you’d be surprised,” she replied, “the universe creates like-mindedness all the time. Like, yesterday morning, I only had clients named Chris.”

    A part of me wanted to ask how many clients she had yesterday morning. If she had had eight, that would be impressive if they were all named Chris. If she only had two, then not so much.

    But I didn’t want to get off topic.

    “But Anders isn’t that common of a name,” I said.

    “Oh, I know a ton of Anders!’” she replied, rolling her head back like I wouldn’t even be able to fathom the number.

    Once again, I wanted to ask more questions, like, “a ton?” But, this had become a delicate enough interchange as it was. And one that had me stumped. My lack of movement prompted her to look at the computer again, and she read out loud the phone number next to Anders Sanders’s name. It was my phone number, and I relaxed as surely this was the proof she needed. That’s why she thought to check it.

    “Yes, that’s me. That’s my phone number,” I said. “I think the woman I talked to on the phone when I made the appointment just put in the wrong last name, or maybe I didn’t give her a last name and she needed to type in something.”

    “Or, she put in the wrong phone number,” the stylist countered, looking up at me with a one-eyebrow raised in a look that said, “bet you didn’t think of that, did you?”

    She paused and thought for a moment. I held my breath, hoping that inside her brain she was putting together the pieces to a 2-piece puzzle.

    It did seem like she had solved something.

    “Wait a minute is your last name different from your son’s?”

    “It is,” I answered slowly, and now in my own brain I quickly tried to figure out how things might play out if I told her my last name was Sanders. She would see that it wasn’t my name on my credit card. But maybe she wouldn’t notice? Or maybe if she did I could just shrug and be a bad ass about it. I’m not a bad ass. Did I have enough cash in my car? I think I might have enough cash in my car…

    She looked at me, excited, “what is your last name?”

    Just say it. Say your last name is Sanders.

    “It’s Rutherford,” I answered.

    Boo.

    “Oh, because I thought for a moment that maybe it had just been put under your last name…”the stylist looks genuinely disappointed. I could relate, I was disappointed too.

    “I know, and that was a good idea.”

    I looked at Anders. At some point he went from being age 3 and three feet tall with stick straight light blond hair to age 16 and 6ft 3” tall with brown super curly hair.

    “I want to grow it out as big as possible,” Anders will announce, and with his dad’s enthusiastic support.

    “The bigger the better!” Mark will say.

    It had taken a lot to finally convince Anders to trim it, just a little.

    “Okay, how about this,” I said, “can I leave my son here and if Anders Sanders doesn’t show up, then can you cut his hair?”

    “Of course!” the stylist answered cheerfully, “let’s give it five to ten minutes.”

    “Great.”

    I walked with Anders over to a chair in the waiting area and slipped him my credit card.

    “I mean, what are the odds there is another Anders booked at 2:00 with the exact same phone number?” I whispered to him.

    “No, let’s start here,” my son whispered back, “what are the odds of anyone naming their kid Anders Sanders?”

    What were the odds of someone naming their child Anders Saunders? I wondered.

    Finding out the answer to this went on the top of my “to-do” list. Of course.

    On Facebook I found 10 people named Anders Sanders. Out of a world population of 7.8 billion, that’s ten more than I expected. Most live in Europe. Looks like one in Japan. In any case, if my calculations are correct, the odds of anyone naming their child Anders Sanders are one in 780 million.

    End note: Turned out Anders Sanders was a no show, and Anders Hammerberg got his trim making it more likely to get a clear shot of anyone who happens to be next to him in a photo.

     

     

     

     

     

  • What to do if you run out of gas

    What to do if you run out of gas

    I couldn’t believe it, I had run out of gas. After 15 years I knew my Toyota well. I knew that the needle on the gas gauge could hover in the red zone for miles and miles till it became bored by its own bluff. So, when my car shuddered to a stop in the middle of heavy, downtown traffic, a part of me was impressed. “Good for you,” I thought, “finally following through on a threat.”

    I turned on the hazards and called my husband Mark for help. Then I took in my situation. After years of being just a benign driver used to merging in relative peace, I was now that driver. The jackass everyone will want to get a good long look at as they maneuvered past.

    The way I saw it, after turning on the hazards and making the call for help there were only 2 options:

    1. I could stay in my car and take it like a woman (meaning one who plans to avoid eye contact by playing Words With Friends on her phone.)

    2. I could get out of the car and go get Thai food.

    Turns out it is easy to avoid eye contact with angry drivers when you are a block away at a strip mall Thai restaurant. As my Toyota flashed apologies on my behalf, I debated my spice preference on a level from 1 to 5 chilies. I used to be a solid 4, but I wasn’t so sure anymore. The idea that I might drop to 3 made me nervous I was having an identity crisis.

    Later, holding a paper bag containing an order of pad thai and chicken curry, spice level 3 chilies, I found Mark, holding a bright red gas can next to my car. And he was talking to a police officer.

    “Here she is,” Mark nodded to me, relieved.

    The female officer was young, her long dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail.

    “You’re the driver of this vehicle?” she asked me.

    “Yes.”

    She looked down at my bag of Thai food, then back up at me.

    “Did you leave your vehicle unattended?” she asked, incredulous.

    On top of the food bag, a hot and crispy eggroll peeked out from its paper sleeve, but I decided now wasn’t the time to eat it.

    “Was I not supposed to?” I said finally..

    “You never leave your vehicle unattended!” And now she looked pissed. “I was about to have you ticketed and towed!”

    She motioned to the tow truck parked nearby. Behind the wheel the driver was taking an open-eyed nap.

    “Get your vehicle off the road now, or I’m having you ticketed and towed!”

    “I’ll fill it up,” Mark said, and scurried to over to the side of the car.

    “You just can’t run out of gas like this!” said the officer. I nodded to show her I agreed, that one just can’t run out of gas like this. Its is not a good idea. Why would someone do this? It occurred to me that this was the first time I got scolded by someone old enough to be my daughter and it felt very Freaky Friday-ish. I didn’t want my young cop mom to be mad at me, and so I said…

    “It was his fault,” I pointed at Mark, “he left me with an empty tank.”

    “She’s right,” Mark said quickly, looking up from the gas can, “it was my fault.”

    “I don’t care whose fault it is, get your vehicle off the road or I’m going to have you ticketed and towed!”

    “I can’t figure out this cap, I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Mark, fiddling with the cap, “I wonder what this little lever thing is for…”

    At the top of the bag, the egg roll was getting cold.

    “We’re almost out of here,” I promised the officer. Then, stalling for time, I started babbling like we were buddies about how bad game day traffic has become, and how there should be more gas stations near the CU campus when she interrupted me.

    “You’re a menace,” she blurted.

    I’m a what?

    “You’re a menace to the community!”

    I was not expecting such…strong language. I must have looked as startled as I felt, because glancing at me she seemed to feel a need to explain.

    “Look at all this mayhem you’ve created,” she gestured to the traffic around us.

    Menace? Mayhem? I was tempted to move close enough to her to whisper, “mom? Is that you?”

    “Okay, I got the cap off!” Mark called out as if he just solved all the sides of a Rubix Cube.

    The officer sighed, realizing he hadn’t even started filling the car with gas yet.

    “You need to move your car now or….”

    I knew what she was going to say next. I was tempted to cut her off by singing the rest of the sentence.

    “…I’m going to have you ticketed and towed!” I’d belt out, “Ticketed and towed, ticketed and towed, high ho, ticketed and towed!”

    My instinct was that this would be in character for a menace.

    As I surveyed my handiwork – the honking, the drivers calculating how late they are going to be to wherever they’re going, I began to think of ways I could show up more as the resident community menace. Something more inspired than just running out of gas. One thing I knew for sure, I would need to change the direction on Thai food spice level. Next time, 5 chilies.

    “…I’m going to have you ticketed and towed,” the officer finished.

    But by then I was on to her. She was not going to have us ticketed or towed. I reached in the bag for the egg roll. She was not going to because she knew that having us fill the tank and drive off on our own was the quickest way of extracting her life from mine. I know a bluff when I see it.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • Mid-Life Musings

    Mid-Life Musings

    A couple of years ago, I was at the hair salon explaining to my 20-something-year-old stylist why we were moving from Colorado all the way to Alaska. It was a question I got a lot, and I gave her my usual, rehearsed answer.

    “We think Alaska will be an adventure,” I said, “it’s just a mid-life crisis thing.”

    Usually people smiled at this, and seemed to understand, so the fact that she looked confused had me confused. Didn’t she think Alaska sounded like an adventure?

    Turns out, that wasn’t it.

    “But…” she said as she slathered more hair color onto my roots, “aren’t you a little past the mid-life crisis point?”

    Life Past the Mid-Life Crisis Point:

    We spent this past spring break in Florida at the beach, and in Orlando. And during the week I thought about the concept of “age” a lot. Like, paranoid-ly, a lot.

    For example, at 4:50 a.m one morning, I found myself sitting in the patch of grass that separated the two rows of rooms at our Cocoa Beach “resort.” Really, it’s a motel, and I love that it’s a motel. I stared up into the sky, waiting to see a rocket. It was due to launch at any minute.

    I found out about this NASA launch the same way I get most of my practical information and life advice, and that’s from talking with store cashiers.

    “Are you going to watch the rocket launch tomorrow?” this cashier had asked me as she rang up the food we planned to grill for dinner. I told her I didn’t know anything about it, and asked how I could see it. It suddenly hit me that “seeing a rocket take off” was not on my bucket list, and it should be.

    “It’s at 5 a.m” she said, “and you just go outside and look up.”

    No rocket, but I do see a face with a full head of hair and arms out wide, or maybe a face with a shark tail?

    Five a.m. came and went, and a few minutes later I saw a man approaching from the beach. As he stepped into the light I recognized him, the young guy in room one. I saw him and his girlfriend the night before, also grilling dinner. I guessed they were in their early twenties, and watching them reminded me of how fun it was to hit motels like this one on a road trip with a college boyfriend years ago.

    “Excuse me,” I said approaching him, “any chance you saw a rocket recently.”

    He had. He tells me that the rocket launched thirty minutes early because the weather was right, and that I needed to follow the Kennedy Space Center web site for the up to the minute schedule changes.

    I continued asking questions about the best beaches to surf (learning to surf is part of my too-late-for-a-mid-life-crisis plan) and where they had traveled from, and where they were going, and then I realized  something. The guy looked less like someone interested in talking to me, and more like someone being held captive.

    Oh no, have I turned into that chatty “old person” who corners the young? I could now see it from his point of view – just a few steps from his room door and the freedom inside. But, he can’t be rude to this older woman in a kimono robe who won’t stop asking him questions, and who keeps going off on the most random tangents.

    By the way, the kimono robe is silk and perfect for travel because it’s super light weight, and it can easily be rolled into a ball the size of an orange and then stuffed into the corner of a suitcase which is otherwise wasted space!

    A Few Things That Make You Realize Your Age:

    I think I’ve been hyper-aware of aging recently for several reasons.

    One: birthdays (obviously)

    My birthday is always just a few weeks after spring break. And this one is a milestone one. I won’t say what year, but the average woman’s life expectancy in the U.S is age 76, so going by that, yeah, this birthday puts me well past mid-life.

    Two: Moving your parents out of your childhood home

    We moved my parents into senior living just a month ago. After over forty years in the same house, 40 years climbing up and down the same set of stairs without a second thought, and it seems overnight those stairs transformed into a dangerous obstacle course. So, after a few 911 ambulance visits, which is a few too many, my siblings and I moved my parents into the first nice and available room at a senior living center. The fact that their balcony just overlooked a store parking lot wasn’t ideal, but…otherwise, it was comfortable and safe.

    Sad to say goodbye to the house where my parents raised their family.
    Three: Amusement Parks

    There is something about amusement parks that definitely make you realize your age. I chose Universal and Disney in Orlando this trip because it’s fail-safe choice for a successful family vacation. And I want my soon to be applying to college daughter to remember how much fun our trips are, in hopes she will still want to travel with us.

    And I think she will, we are as dorky and obnoxious as the Griswalds (again showing my age with that reference.)

    Kids and my husband Mark passing time in line for the Tower of Terror.

     

    At Disney World it was more about the nostalgia. But at Universal it was more about the rides and which ones wouldn’t make you feel dizzy the rest of the day. For the first time ever, I passed on a roller coaster, and I love roller coasters. But I didn’t like the incline on this one at Universal. Aside from the upside of smoothing out my wrinkles, it just looked like a headache. Not a position I’d want to be in if it got stuck.

    But at Universal’s Volcano Bay Water Park, I hit every slide even the one that drops out from under your feet and shoots you straight down from the top of the volcano (if you look closely you will see the tube in the picture below). Also at the waterpark I discovered a benefit to my age – I didn’t care how I looked in my swimsuit. Our stuff stayed in a locker the whole day which meant I ran around for hours in a swimsuit without a towel or cover-up. And, I don’t remember the last time I sat down wearing just a swimsuit and wolfed down fries and a slice of pizza. This freedom rediscovered made me feel both old and young.

    Although this doesn’t mean I’m going to actually post or take a photo of myself in a swimsuit. There are limits.

    As we retrieved our phones later that day from the lockers, and rode the shuttle back to our hotel I noticed a series of texts I had missed as were were busy having fun.

    “Are you safe?” one read, it was from a friend in Texas who I hadn’t talked to in awhile.

    “Are you and the family okay?” read another one from a friend in California.

    And on the scroll of texts went.

    Oh no, I thought, and I checked the news. Another Colorado shooting, this time at the King Soopers in Boulder. The grocery store my parents balcony overlooks (they watched the handcuffed gunman being led out). The store my kids hang out during lunch, as their high school is just down the street (thankful it was spring break) and I couldn’t count the number of times I have been in that store over the years, these days usually wandering the aisles listening to a real estate or true crime podcast…I would have been totally unaware. Later when I saw the photos, names, and ages of the victims, recognizing one employee I chatted with multiple times as she had been there for years, it dawned on me that an age like 51 now just sounds as young as it always was.

    I couldn’t help but think of the stores we visited regularly in Alaska. My guess is a shooter like this gunman (who did not take his own life, but surrendered) would be less likely to attempt  this there. If only because half the shoppers are carrying firearms themselves. But, if it did happen, it would likely have turned into a full on shoot out, people not being positive who was who.

    The memorial and just behind, my parent’s residence.

    So, I’m actually writing this post on the morning of my milestone birthday. And my husband Mark just read it, and reminded me that his grandfather lived until he was 102. His grandpa was the only doctor for years in a small town in Michigan, and I attended his 100th birthday there. I remember seeing one man, using a walker, approaching Mark’s grandpa, “Remember me, Dr. Hammerberg?” the man asked, “you delivered me 76 years ago!” If 102 turns out to be my number, then I’m actually a couple years too young to have a mid-life crisis!

    So as not to end on such a tragic, sad note with the shooting, I’m wrapping this post up with a video my son watched over and over to get psyched up for the roller coaster I passed on at Universal.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • The Hunt for the Northern Lights

    The Hunt for the Northern Lights

    Every once in a while I look up, and I’m reminded that I live in Alaska.

    That reminder may come in the form of a stunning view, or as a large mounted animal head (they’re everywhere), or as a sign along a hiking trail that only I seem to find funny.

    (Another sign I couldn’t help but stop and note is mentioned in this post, https://pokingthebear.org/ways-to-summer-in-alaskas-playground/)

    But sometimes it is a combination of things that create a moment. Like this moment I briefly filmed here, it is just so Alaska. From the bar, to the people, to the conversation, to the weather, to the young snowmobilers…or, I should say snow-machiners because “snowmobile” is a lower 48 word.

    And, next to me there is my husband Mark, being so Mark by worrying about “someone getting run over.”

     

    “Our kids are not getting on snow machines!” Mark responds when I suggest it,  “The only thing worse than crashing your snow machine, is  having it run over you after you crash.” As a trauma surgeon, he has seen more than a few patients who would prove the point.

    But, while we are still in Alaska, there a couple of things we still need to check off the list, and that is seeing the Northern Lights and snow machining (Mark will come around) and perhaps doing both in one place. I imagine the four of us flying across the snow as the green lights of the Aurora Borealis swirl overhead.

    Borealis Basecamp:

    How cool is this place?!

    It’s night and 7 degrees at this camp an hour outside Fairbanks. There are five people in the lobby; myself, my son Anders, my daughter Tatum, Tatum’s friend, and an employee.

    The employee is a large man, mid-30s, wearing a bandana as his covid-wear of choice. The length of the bright red bandana layered over his much longer rusty red beard has a cohesive, almost stylish look.

    “Mom, Anders isn’t wearing a face mask!” Tatum suddenly notices, thrilled to have something on her brother that I have no choice but to publicly respond to.

    “Anders! Go back to the car and get it,” I say.

    The man raises his hand up to stop him, “You’re okay, I don’t care.”

    Anders stops and looks at me just as my husband Mark enter the lobby.

    “It’s a democracy here,” the man continues.

    “What’s happening?” Mark asks, confused.

    “Dad, Anders isn’t wearing a mask!” That’s Tatum again.

    Mark is no longer looking confused. There was a time when getting in his son’s face meant having to bend down, but as of recently, like in the last two months, it simply means standing upright and eye to eye.

    “Anders, did you hear the man?” Mark scolds, “This is a democracy, do you know what that means? It means the majority has voted that masks are what we should be doing, so why aren’t you wearing yours?!”

    “That’s not what I’m saying,” the man says, but Mark can’t hear him because Mark hopped on another train. Same station platform. Opposite direction.

    Mark walks Anders outside, leaving me in his awkward wake, something I’m used to. I’m a little surprised Mark misinterpreted the man though. Speaking of moments that remind me I’m in Alaska and not our hometown Boulder, coming across someone resistant to the mask isn’t uncommon. Compared to other countries, Americans in general don’t like taking orders, but Alaskans ten times more so.

    “That’s not what I was saying,” the man repeats, “I wouldn’t be wearing a mask if I wasn’t required to as an employee. I’m not scared.”

    I nod.

    Personally, when it comes to masks, there are times like this one when I wish I had a mask that covered my entire face. Then I could just shut my eyes and try to sleep.

    The lobby is now very quiet. I’m at a loss for words.  And, Tatum is at a loss for a brother to tattle on.

    The man breaks the silence, “I actually think I have the antibodies because in March there were a lot of people here from China and Japan.”

    Now I’m awake. There is this rumor I have been meaning to investigate.

    “Oh, right, they come here because…?” I ask, referring to the rumor.

    “Yeah, it is some sort of fertility tradition they have,” he shrugs, “I don’t know.”

    And he looks like he doesn’t want to know, but I’m curious. I’m going to have to officially look into this one once we get to into our room, I mean, igloo. Here at Borealis Basecamp, the accommodations are referred to as igloos.

    https://borealisbasecamp.net/?gclid=CjwKCAiA8Jf-BRB-EiwAWDtEGrj7kOntNcmRHF5MCyw_fHB3sreIrRhBCkbpFEAp48hjhQe0_TIlThoCKdwQAvD_BwE

    The Perfect Place to See the Northern Lights, and Conceive a Gifted Child?

    “Have you heard that rumor about how Japanese travel to Alaska to conceive a child under the Northern Lights?” I ask Mark after we are led to our igloo.

    “No, why would they do that?”

    “It’s believed to result in a “gifted” child.”

    “Well, too bad we didn’t know, because we’re 0 for 2.”

    I looked it up, and from what I can tell it is just a rumor.

    https://soranews24.com/2015/02/14/is-it-true-that-japanese-go-to-alaska-to-copulate-under-the-aurora-【myth-busters】/It started on an episode of “Northern Exposure,” a popular 90s show I have never seen. “Oh you have to watch Northern Exposure!” almost everyone would say when we announced we were moving to a small town in Alaska. But, along with “Leave it to Beaver” and “Welcome Back Kotter” “Northern Exposure” is not streaming on Netflix or anywhere.

    As it turns out, we did not see the lights at Borealis Basecamp.  It is possible that we were too late into winter, and the skies were filled with clouds.  I wasn’t too surprised as checking on Aurora activity is something I check on more than the weather itself and I knew “activity” would be low. https://www.gi.alaska.edu/monitors/aurora-forecast.

    The perfect place to see the Northern lights, unless there are clouds.

    Those clouds prevented viewing of the Northern Lights, but they did provide another particular benefit of the Alaskan north: snow.

    The weekend that we visited the Borealis Basecamp, they had just started dog sledding in earnest.  They are true competitors, but they will offer to take tourists on sledding adventures to subsidize the considerable expenses of running a bonafide competitive dog sled operation.  The prior weekend, they were using wheeled carts for lack of snow.  When we were there, they just switched to actual sleds.  Our guide loved it.  “When I’m done with you, I will do another 25 mile training run,” he said.  “Then, I’ll switch dogs, and we’ll do another 25 miles.”

    The next day, clouds continued to fill the sky.  And, they continued to provide ample snow, enough for a snow machine expedition.  Finally, Mark had consented to let the kids go, and even drive.

    And while we didn’t get the northern lights swirling overheard, we did get something I hadn’t realized I wanted to see.

    “Is that the Alaska Pipeline?” I ask our guide as we approach what I thought at was another ski hill. But these weren’t ski hills, apparently during much of our ride we had been on top of the pipeline. More than half of the 800 mile pipeline is above ground.

    Snow machining past the Trans-Alaska Pipeline? I say that counts as an “Alaska moment.”

    Now, while not seeing the Northern Lights was disappointing we weren’t too upset as we did see the Northern Lights on an October trip to Fairbanks with my brother Ken. October usually means clearer skies.

    We loved the lodge where we stayed. It was affordable (certainly in covid times, and it was more classic in terms of style. https://atasteofalaska.com

    To catch the lights of Aurora Borealis though you had to head out to a field behind the lodge. When I heard the lights were active (and they can be very fleeting) I’d run out to that field, trying snap shots of the sky along the way but without spilling wine from the glass I had in my other hand.

    Because I have my priorities in order, I managed to save every sip of the wine, but my photos were terrible.

    Fortunately, out in the field there were other lodge guests who we quickly befriended. One of them was  a professional photographer who offered to shoot a family portrait of us the next day. Where we actually look like an almost sane family.

    And he sent me his images of his shots of the Northern Lights from the night before.

    I’ll admit, this is a little better than the shots I took. http://www.toddrafalovich.com

    End Note:

    Todd and his wife will be traveling with my brother this summer (if all goes well) to revisit the village my brother lived in as a peace corps volunteer several decades ago. I’m almost tempted to join if only to lose another 10lbs quickly. https://pokingthebear.org/the-art-of-seduction/

    I can’t wait to see photos from that trip, and how the village may have changed.

    Visiting my brother in Garli village, Mauritania, Africa. A long time ago.
  • Life on the Outskirts

    Life on the Outskirts

    “The Hunt” Act I:

    “It’s not at the restaurant,” my husband Mark says, starting to panic. He had used my cell to inquire about his own, which he thought he must have left at the restaurant where we had dinner an hour earlier.

    “And you checked the couch?” I ask, because 9 times out of 10 it’s in the couch cushions.

    “Yes! I looked everywhere!”

    It was clear he had at least looked in every drawer of our house, as they were all still open.

    Years ago I came up with a rule that I felt would keep our marriage intact. I told Mark I’d help him look for either his keys, wallet, or phone one thousand times throughout our lives together, and then no more. I thought the number was generous but he blew through it within the first month after the wedding.

    “You have only 10 left,” I said to him back in 2002, “Are you sure you don’t want to spread them out over the next decade or so?”

    “Can you help?!” Mark asks me now, “my patients could be trying to call me!”

    This is where he always gets me. I grab my phone back from him.

    “Did you check Find My Friends?” I ask.

    Mark shakes his head “no.”

    I open the app and there is Mark’s smiling face marking the location of his phone, and it is somewhere totally unexpected.

    “Your phone is on the other side of Sterling Highway,” I say.

    The other side of the highway from our neighborhood is mostly woods. There are some houses back there. You can’t see them from the main road, you just know they are there because you see the entrance to their driveways, marked by three or more “No trespassing” signs.

    On the map we are given an exact address. Mark and I stare at it, confused.

    “How could my phone be there?” He asks.

    “I don’t know, did you visit your mistress today?” I ask.

    “I don’t think so. Could someone have swiped my phone when we were at the restaurant?”

    We had been seated at a high top table near the bathrooms, but no…this seems unlikely. Still, it was right there on my phone, Mark’s face on the map with an address.

    “Let’s go,” Mark says grabbing the car keys.

    “We’re going to just show up and accuse them of having your phone?”

    “My patients could be trying to reach me!”

    At this point I ask myself 2 questions.

    One: Should I change out of my pajamas? My pajamas, by the way, happen to be hospital scrubs. I figure for Mark, after a long day working in scrubs and surrounded by people in scrubs there is no better sight for sore eyes than coming home to a wife who is also wearing scrubs.

    I used to go out in public in these scrubs every once in awhile, like on a late night run to the grocery store. I figured people would just assume I had just gotten off my shift. Not only lazy but shameless of me, I know.

    But I have stopped doing that. In these covid days, the sight of hospital scrubs in the grocery aisle have shoppers wheeling their carts around and scurrying away in the opposite direction or throwing themselves up against a wall of cereal to get away from me. Could be my imagination, but I don’t think so.

    On this outing, however, I decide to stay in the scrubs. I figure it’ll lend legitimacy to our urgent mission to retrieve the phone.

    Question Two: “Should we bring the gun?” I ask Mark.

    These are words I never thought would come out of my mouth. Mark laughs at this, and I guess I am half joking. Which means I’m half not.

    People who live in town, and people who live out of town:

    “It’s the Wild West out there,” my in town friend says of those who live in the more remote areas of Alaska. One can and should assume every household has guns, and the further out you go, the looser the interpretation of law becomes.

    My friend and I are taking our usual morning walk around her in-town neighborhood which I refer to as the trick or treat neighborhood. There are street lights, the houses are close together. There are a lot of families with young kids. And, it seems everyone knows everyone.

    The “trick or treat” neighborhood. Mid-October, 8 a.m. The mornings are getting darker…

    “Good morning Staci,” my friend waves at a woman across the street who is walking with a headlight. A man in a truck drives past and my friend waves at him too.

    “That’s Mr. Sweeney,” she says.

    “From the store?” I ask.

    She nods. I’m referring to a hunting and fishing store nearby. It’s called Sweeneys.

    There isn’t a person we pass that she doesn’t know. She says she feels safe in a neighborhood where everyone looks out for each other, noting if anything is amiss.

    But, many people move to this state because they don’t want neighbors popping in, or keeping an eye on their home. They don’t want neighbors to even be able to see their home. 95% of the state is wilderness, so creating your own private world in the woods is easy to do.

    But, we are now about to infiltrate someone’s private world in the hunt for Mark’s ever elusive phone.

    “The Hunt” Act II:

    “This is it, turn left,” I say looking at the map. And Mark does. We ignore the “No Trespassing” signs and head down a long gravel driveway, eventually we see house lights through the trees.

    By the time we reach the house, the couple who lives there is already outside to intercept us.

    I am a little relieved to see the house is a nice one, well cared for. The couple looks to be in their early 50s. You never know what your going to get when you head down a blind driveway, I was worried we’d end up in front of some meth lab structure because unfortunately, there are those in Alaska. It’s a problem. https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/inside-alaska-meth-opioid-epidemic-701855/

    As we step out of the truck, the husband calls out, “Can we help you?”

    Mark and I stay next to our truck as Mark starts apologizing while simultaneously asking about his phone and how maybe someone in their house accidentally grabbed it from a restaurant, because our app says it is there.

    I smile a lot and make interjections about how he’s a doctor and his patients need to be able to call him.

    The two of them look at my scrub pants. I knew I made the right call wearing them.

    “Well, my parents did go out to dinner, but they wouldn’t take your phone,” the wife says.

    “Oh it’s an old phone nobody would take it on purpose but maybe we could ask..?” Mark suggests.

    “They don’t have your phone,” she states, firmly.

    There is a long tense moment of silence as we stare at each other. I look at Mark.

    “Okay, well, thanks, sorry again for showing up like this,” Mark says, to my relief, “my wife actually joked before coming over that we should bring our gun for safety.” Mark laughs as if the idea of that is preposterous, but the husband and wife both nod. Makes sense to them.

    “Nah, you’re good here,” the man says, relaxing, “but I wouldn’t go to our neighbors over here, or the ones behind us.”

    He points in the two directions.

    “Or the two properties over there,” the woman says pointing in the only directions that hadn’t been covered yet.

    “And definitely don’t go to that big farm across Sterling,” the man says.

    The couple suddenly becomes very animated as they tell us about their youngest son crashing his ATV (all terrain vehicle) on the farm, and the farm owner still won’t let them retrieve their ATV a year later. He said if they tried he would consider it trespassing.

    “Can you imagine?” she asks, looking at me, “an 11-year-old boy is injured in a crash and he doesn’t even care. He made my son walk home!”

    I shake my head, no, that I can’t imagine. And we all exchange exclamations of disbelief, and comments on how crazy people are. Now that we’ve moved past the question of whether or not there is going to be a shoot out, it’s starting to feel like we are leaving a friends house after a dinner party.

    We chat a little longer and then it is friendly waves good-bye before we get back in the truck and drive up the long driveway. The wheels making their way across the gravel is the only sound as Mark stares silently ahead. He looks defeated.

    I pull out my phone and look at the app again. Mark’s photo is no longer at the address we had just driven to. I can’t believe where the app is telling us the phone is now.

    I Think I’m Turning into an Out of Town Person

    I’ve always loved city life. Prior to kids I’d give up square footage for anything located next to the best restaurants. My studio in Beacon Hill, Boston was maybe 300 square feet, I could cook eggs from my bed as I started the shower.

    After having kids, we have only lived in suburbia, in trick or treat neighborhoods. But since moving here and living in a house on the outskirts, I am not sure I can be an in-town person ever again. How can one go back from such privacy and 360 views?

    The kids love 4-square but we have a gravel driveway, so we found this volleyball version of 4-square.

    https://www.crossnetgame.com

    In our plan to eventually return to family and friends in Colorado, we are considering a move to a house in the mountains. Mark has always campaigned for it. It took a year living here for me to realize that I could get behind such a plan. (Unfortunately, I am a little late. Covid and low interest rates has made the real estate market in Colorado’s mountain towns explode.)

    I would never live off the grid or some place so remote that there aren’t neighbors within walking distance. I like something in between, like what we have found here. As outsiders coming in, we might have been taken into the community fold in a quicker way if we had chosen to live in town. So, not only are we physically on the outskirts given where we decided to live, but we are on the outskirts socially as well. But then we have met people in Alaska who have felt they were never taken into the fold until at least 20 years of living here. But being surrounded by such beauty is worth it. Our two only and immediate neighbors on either side of us are amazing. And people do pop by on occasion. Most recently one of Mark’s patients came by to drop off a basket of veggies from his garden.

    “You’re husband changed my life, I can finally garden again,” the man tells me, referring to his new knee.

    What to make with all these veggies?
    Ratatouille!

    “The Hunt” Act III:

    “You won’t believe where it says your phone is now,” I tell Mark, as I look at the Find My Friends map.

    “Where?” he asks, his hope restored.

    “It says it’s at our house.”

    “What?! Why did it give us this other address?”

    “I don’t know!”

    Only, I do know. It’s my frenemy Siri, getting back at me for swearing at her the other day. She could have been more cruel though, I decide. At least she sent us to the only people in that neck of the woods who didn’t come at us with shotguns.

    End Scene:

    Mark’s phone is found under a cushion on the couch.

     

    Photo Credit for our family shot. We met Todd around midnight one night. We were all in a field outside Fairbanks hunting for the Northern Lights (but that’s another story). He offered to take photos of us the next day. I had no idea how lucky we were to have come across such a pro until I looked up his site. http://www.toddrafalovich.com